Bought by the Raunchy Cowboy: A BBW Billionaire Romance

by Raina Wilde

  He reached for her, impatient, tearing the dress at her throat. The costly linen parted fast.

  Frances gasped as he reached through the gap. His hands were insistent, and bruised her where they grabbed for her breast.

  She writhed and tried to move away. He pulled her back, and then collapsed backwards onto the bed, swearing.

  His breathing was heavy. He sat up, ponderous, and found her mouth. His hands were in the rent in her dress, squeezing the flesh of her breast until it hurt. His lips slobbered on her face. He smelled rank and his body felt heavy, unwashed and weighty on hers. She tried to move away, but his mouth choked her.

  “Stay still, “His hand came out and tried to swat her shoulder. She cringed. Stayed still.

  “Got to. . . undress. ”

  He stood, unsteadily. His hands undid his plaid from around his shoulders, fumbling with his shirt buttons. His body was stubby with muscle, a swollen liver marking his drinking habits, coarse hair covering his chest.

  He collapsed next to her, with an arm that went round her waist, and he dragged her dress down. His body was pressed against hers, the chest hair prickling against her pale skin.

  He leaned onto her and pressed himself against her. She tried to move out from under him, but he made to cuff her again, and she stiffened, afraid.

  Then he was sitting up. His hand moved down to the thick hair between his thighs. Frances had no idea what he was doing; had never seen a naked man's body before. His eyes were quite blank, and he was having trouble keeping his balance on the bed. His hand moved a few times, and then he swayed forward, and keeling over, his head hit the pillow.

  Frances was to afraid to move, but after a minute she rolled over and looked. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he slept. After another minute, he was breathing noisily, deep snores filling the room.

  Frances stood; gathered the torn remains of her dress around her. Shivering with cold and revulsion, she pulled a coverlet out from under his body. She took the flowers from her hair and curled up in the velvet chair across the room.

  Her feet hunched up for warmth, and the coverlet over her shoulders, she huddled in the chair, shaking. I am so cold. She lay there for an age, thoughts whirling, before she fell into exhausted, drained sleep.

  ***

  Frances was outside, walking. It was morning, the mist still grey and close about the walls of the garden. She had been two days in Castle McNeil, and she had escaped each morning to the garden, exploring it slowly.

  The walls were high, and over them she could hear the pounding of the distant sea. She could not see out of the garden, but inside at least it was dense with green shrubs and small trees; places enough to hide.

  Stands of trees gave way to a small grove, with a round stone near the center. She sat down, the dense trees screening her. She pulled her knees up to her chest for warmth and the safety it gave, thinking about the events of the past two days.

  Her new husband had not touched her again. After her wedding-night, when he had collapsed so mysteriously, he had avoided her, unable to meet her eye. Frances spent the day trying everything to avoid him—sewing in the turret room, walking in the garden.

  She looked out over the grey morning landscape, and felt a tear roll slowly down her cheek.

  Duncan? It was the first time she had dared to think of him. Her heart was too scared, and too raw, to risk thoughts of him indoors. She would not let her husband see her cry, would not grant him that victory.

  Now that she thought of Duncan, her mind was awash. So many questions unasked. Did you receive my letter? Did you care? And last, but most important: Do you love me?

  She thought about that. If he loved her, as she loved him, would he not be here? Would he not, at least, have sent word? Have tried to send her comfort? Perhaps she was fooling herself. Perhaps she was nothing. Her father thought so—he sold her for his debts. Her husband thought so—he touched her like he touched the servants. The whole staff thought so, she was sure —she knew they whispered about her. Duncan must think so too. He had not written. Maybe she really was nothing?

  Frances' pale face was frozen as she watched the deer moving across the woods. A tear ran down her cheek, and then another, faster, joining it.

  Duncan? Why do even you hate me?

  She sat still, drowned in misery, blind to the deer that ran from the clearing, deaf to the drizzling rain.

  A stone bounced beside her. She did not look up. Another joined it.

  Is the wall falling? Frances thought, disinterested. It can cover me. I do not want to live.

  Thwack. Another stone hit the boulder she sat on. She turned.

  Her eyes fell on pale gold hair, on a white shirt, on a lithely-muscled form, stepping out from behind a tree.

  “Frances? ”

  His voice was a whisper. They stood for a moment, eyes full of each other. Then his arms were around her body and her arms were around his. His lips were on hers, and they were leaning together. She was laughing, and crying, and holding him. His hands caressed her hair, her neck, her face.

  “Frances. ”

  “Duncan. ”

  They stood apart for a moment, then kissed again.

  Their bodies moved over each other, pressing deliciously close. Her hands caressed him, and his caressed her.

  They leaned back on the grass, her body yielding to his. He leaned over her and their bodies moved together. He gasped, and her gasp joined his. They moved together longer, each lost in the delicious sensation of their bodies so close and warm. His mouth was on hers and her hands on his hair.

  He sat up, suddenly, and looked down at her, his face a mix of tenderness and wonder.

  “Is there somewhere. . . safe? ” His voice was hoarse, his eyes alive with warmth and need and longing.

  Frances nodded. Her breathing was strained and her whole body throbbed with need. She sat up. Her hair was loose from its pins, and tumbled around her shoulders.

  “The garden house. ”

  Probably built as a hunting pavilion, the garden-house was two rooms near the middle of the woodland area.

  Their breath heavy in their throats, they stood, hand in hand, and walked the short distance to the lodge.

  They went inside, and closed the door. Their eyes met. Then their world was shrinking, closing down to just touch, and taste, and nearness and each other.

  His lips were on hers, his body close. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, her fingers tracing the muscled arms as he leaned down to kiss her. His hips pressed against her and she molded her body to press against his, wanting only to feel him close.

  They clung together, and collapsed, panting, onto a low seat by the fire. His hands moved her shift back, caressing the skin of her shoulders with a fingertip.

  His leg came between her thighs and she leaned back. He moved the dress off her shoulder. She moved, moaning softly, as he moved lower, to carefully kiss her breast. They inhaled sharply together as he found her nipple and took it between his lips. She arched back, pressing toward him even as he bent towards her, his mouth eager on her nipple.

  He sat back, and his hands, tenderly, undressed her. She found the buttons and unfastened them, as eager to remove it has he was.

  They clung together, their bare bodies molded to each other. He sat back, reluctant to part for a second, and moved into her.

  They both gasped. They swayed together, moving slowly and then faster, their need driving them, pressing hard and harder against each other, their breath mingling, bodies joined in the ageless, ancient dance. Augmenting his penetration, Duncan’s fingers deftly worked her pleasure zone, bringing her slowly to heights of ecstasy she had not know possible. She cried out, a wash of pleasure flowing through her body, feeling as warm as fire and as delicious as summertime. She heard him cry out, a moment later, a shuddering gasp of need and desire and passion beyond words.

  They collapsed on each other, breath mingling. After an age, he rolled off her and his arms came around
her, holding her close. Her head moved, nestling on his shoulder. They lay together, close and safe and warm.

  He sat up and looked down at her, his eyes glowing. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Frances. ” His finger traced her lips. She kissed it.

  “Duncan. ”

  They did not move until midday, and then it was only to tenderly make love again, until the first lengthening of the shadows in spring's dusk.

  At length, they sat. He dressed, and she dressed, their hands lingering on one another.

  “How did you find me? ”

  “Your letter. ” He smiled at her, grey eyes brimming with warmth. His voice was hoarse. “Thank you. For sending it. For thinking of me. ”

  Frances smiled, She felt as if her heart would break from the tender feeling overwhelming her.

  “Of course I did. ”

  They kissed.

  “Jessie brought the letter to me. ”

  She smiled. Jessie was a good friend, a real angel.

  After a moment, he smiled at her again. “Would Jessie agree to have you stay with her? The sea air would do you good, and give you the time to adjust to your new life. ” His lips lifted in a warm smile, tender with hope.

  “I think she would. ” Frances grinned back.

  They kissed, and parted at the door, the evening light tender and white-edged, lining them in pewter as he walked silently through the door.

  Frances stayed a while in the summer house, her mind whirling, a sweet, slow smile radiant on her lips and in her eyes.

  ***

  The carriage jolted to a halt outside the McGuire manor house. Frances alighted, and the coachman handed down her luggage. He bowed and climbed back up to the front seat, turning the coach behind her on the drive.

  “Frances!”

  “Jess!”

  The two girls met in the middle of the path, red hair mingled with pale in a crushing embrace.

  They stood back, smiling at one another. Jess had married, soon after Frances, wedding her lifelong sweetheart. She had not moved from her ancestral lands, she and James moving into a smaller house on the estate. It was there that she had invited Frances to stay with her, immediately on receiving her letter.

  The two walked up the drive together, arms linked, heads together. As soon as they reached the house, Jess pulled the door shut behind them both and grinned.

  “Frances! You can guess who's here. ” She stood back, then, and a young man walked in, a shy smile lighting his face.

  Frances walked forward, and she and Duncan embraced. Jess grinned at them both.

  “Come on, you two! Not here!”

  Frances and Duncan looked up, reproached. Jess smiled.

  “Well. . . I've put you in the Summer suite, but you must come up and see the parlor. . . I had it redecorated and I'm rather pleased. ”

  Frances grinned at Duncan. Together they followed Jess up to the parlor, where a table was laid out with refreshments.

  The room was indeed beautiful, decorated in the latest style. Frances complimented her, and Duncan nodded, smiling.

  Jess did not keep them long, claiming that she had to plan dinner. She bustled out, grinning radiantly. Frances and Duncan were alone.

  They sat, just looking at each other.

  Frances moved first, leaning forward. Duncan moved, too, the gap between them closed. Their lips met.

  For the first time, they had time. They kissed, slowly, their lips exploring each other's. Frances smiled to taste his mouth, warm and sweet and tender on her lips. They kissed for what seemed an age, their bodies close.

  They broke apart, sighing.

  “Well? ” Duncan's voice was trembling a little. He grinned. “Shall we see the room that has been set out for us? ”

  Frances nodded, wordlessly. They walked upstairs.

  Duncan opened a door on his left, and then closed it behind her.

  They fell on the wide white bed together, their arms around each other. Someone had lit a fire in the grate, and the air was gently scented and deliciously warm.

  Frances was lying beneath him, and then slid over him, smiling down at him mischievously. Her eyes were blue and slanted with desire. Duncan breathed out in a sigh. She looked breathtaking.

  His hand caressed her neck, as Frances leaned in and kissed him. His arms held her close. They lay together, her body pressed to his, and then he rolled over, pressing her beneath him. His fingers caressed her shoulder, moving down to the ties of her dress.

  Frances smiled, arching back as he slowly moved the dress down to her waist. His mouth moved over her breasts, lingering. She moaned. He licked his way down her chest, moving to her navel. She gasped. He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. He kissed lower. Her eyes flew open, with surprise. His mouth moved to between her thighs, licking and kissing.

  She moaned again, a shudder of pure delight. He worked her with his tongue, her gasp of pleasure firing him with fresh desire. Her skin was porcelain, her thighs soft and pliant, the scent of her intoxicating in his nostrils.

  She cried out with a crest of intense pleasure, her body contorted with the stab of it, and he could hold back no more. He had to be inside her. He sat up, and she found her hands moving over his chest even as he undid his buckle, hands uneven with their haste and need.

  He moved between her thighs and they both cried out as he slid into her. The feeling of him filling her was a pleasure, the deep pressure of him inside her more satisfying than anything she had felt. They took their time, a slow, deep motion that made them both gasp, building to a wave of pleasure so intense that they felt transported when, finally, it crested.

  They fell asleep in each other's arms.

  ***

  Frances and Duncan were on the terrace.

  Jessie, in her own domesticity, left them alone most days, and they spent each day discovering each other, learning all the little things they did not know, finding new nuances in each other, and in their bodies, that brought them even closer.

  It was the last day of Frances' allotted visit. During the week, she had been transported with happiness. She and Duncan were more than close. In those five days, the feeling between them that had been there since they met had broadened to become deep and intense, a heartfelt love.

  They sat in the late afternoon sunlight together, her hair a warm nimbus around her head, his hand resting over hers on the seat.

  “Frances? ”

  “Yes? ”

  “You know I love you? ”

  “Yes. ” Her voice was low, rich and satisfied. “And you know it's not as much as I love you? ”

  He smiled. Leaned forward to kiss her. “I didn't know it was a contest. ”

  She grinned warmly. “It isn't. I merely stated a fact. ”

  He smiled again. “And how would you know? ”

  “It's not possible to love anyone more than I love you. ”

  They both laughed.

  “I love you infinitely. ” He smiled down at her. His voice teased, but his eyes were serious.

  She looked up at him gravely. They embraced.

  “I cannot say goodbye. ” Her voice ached.

  “I know. I cannot either. ”

  They held each other, pressing their bodies together as if to join themselves inseparably together.

  “You can come again, though? ” He sat back, looking down at her.

  “I will. ” She sounded certain.

  “Will you be safe? ” He asked, concerned. “What we do is dangerous. ”

  “I do not care. ”

  They kissed, slowly.

  Hours later, the carriage had arrived for Frances. They stood together for what seemed like an age, just looking at each other. No words came. What they had to say was beyond words.

  Their lips met, and caressed each other. Then she was walking forward, her hand lifted in farewell.

  He lifted his, and smiled below eyes full of tears. She nodded, and turned away, the tears already falling down her chee
ks.

  The coachman helped her up into the carriage, and she shut the door behind herself, sinking back into the plush seats. She drew the curtain over the window and broke down. She sobbed, quietly, down the path and onto the road. She cried until her head ached. Then she stopped.

  I will see him again.

  Somewhere inside her, her heart was sure of that.

  ***

  Breakfast was silent, Frances seated alone at the big table, a course of bread and cheese and cold ham laid out for her. She ate silently, back in the oppressive silence of her married home. Her velvet dress hissed across the floor as she walked out into the corridor.

  “Good day, my wife. ”

  Frances looked up, startled. Then she closed her eyes. She had started to hope that he had lost interest in her. But there he stood. Her husband. Jamie McNeil.

  Before she went away, she would have cringed at that tone. Would have felt shamed and dirty, and would have felt obliged to do his bidding. She was nothing, after all. Now though, she knew better. Knew she was not nothing. Knew she was loved.

  “Good day. ” She looked through him.

  As she walked past, he put out a hand to stop her. “Not so fast. ”

  She stared at him, as if he were a servant who had just committed a transgression. He moved closer, standing threateningly close.

  “I said, not so fast. I am your husband, and I have need of you. ”

  “I am. . . indisposed. ” She tried to move her hand. He gripped it tighter. His eyes narrowed.

  “I'll judge that. I am your husband. You are mine. I have waited long enough and I am out of patience. ”

  He pulled her aside, into one of the rooms off the corridor. It turned out to be a solarium, with desks for reading or embroidery. He leaned on the door. His arms held her to him, even though she tried to lash out.

  “Good. ” He chuckled. “Fight me. At least it puts some life in you. ”

  She gasped, enraged. How dare he?

  He leaned down and put his mouth on hers. She jerked her head back, and glared up at him. She wanted to spit in his face.

  He looked down at her, mockingly. Held her closer. His mouth moved to her chin, his hand twisting her arm back to stop her reaching out to strike out at him.